Erebor High
by Mattora
Summary: Meet Thorin Oakenshield, 17 year-old son of Thrain Oakenshield, former boss of Thror & Company, who daily battles Wiktor Smaugh on the schoolyard, planning to win back his father's bancrupt Mining Company one day!


EREBOR HIGH

_For Ringelotta - maybe the crack forever be with you ! _

**Type**: AU

**Genre**: Humor, Drama, possibly crack

**Characters**: Everybody

**Plot summary**: Meet Thorin Oakenshield, 17 year-old son of Thrain Oakenshield, former boss of Thror & Company, who daily battles Wiktor Smaugh on the schoolyard, planning to win back his father's bancrupt Mining Company one day!

* * *

"Thorin – _Again_?", the old man asked softly, looking a the teenager sitting in a chair across his desk after taking a glance at the report card in front of him. This was the fifth time the youth had been send to counseling, and it would not be long until he would be here again; sighing, Gandalf signed the card and put it away on the pile which was steadily growing in his desk's drawer.

"Thorin, how many times have been here already?

The boy growled at his teacher, shooting daggers at him with his good eye, the other one swollen shut, "... Five times... _Sir_."

"And how often do you plan on coming here?", Gandalf politely inquired, stirring his cold coffee; it was past six pm already, the cafeteria long closed. Getting his own coffee maker was probably the only solution to his dilemma the grey-haired man realized – or getting a new job, leaving problem students like Thorin to themselves.

"..."

The black-haired boy did not answer his teacher, staring down at his broken shoes; he was in bad need for new ones, the soles already coming off of his sneakers – but there simply was no money for sneakers, or new jeans, or a bag not torn in five places or lunch money.

"Thorin, I know this is not easy on you, with the situation at hand and... Well. But you can not ruin your life over schoolyard fights! And your grades are dropping to. You may have to leave school if this continues - do you understand?"

Seeing the boy's shoulders slouch, his defiance replayed by despair, Gandalf wished there was any way he could help the teenager, getting him out of the mess he was in. He understood why his student was acting up, but still, he could not simply dismiss his behavior and refrain from punishing him just because of his personal problems – or could he?

"You will stay tomorrow after school and help clean the rooms.. And you will write an essay on Roosevelt, due Friday."

Thorin looked at Gandalf surprised, seeing how he got off easy this time; had expected worse, and hurried to express his gratitude, relieved to not have to apologize to the very person who had started the fight getting him send to the counselor.

"Thank you very much Sir! I'll be at your office tomorrow – in time – thank you very much!"

He was already half through the door, when Gandalf called after him, eying him sternly over the rim of his glasses, warning him, "Thorin - do not get into another fight with Wiktor Smaug. You're just playing into his hands."

His face full of bitterness, the teenager gave his teacher a short nod, before closing the office door forcefully. Gandalf sighed unhappily, flipping over his calender to write a note to himself to speak with Thrain Oakenshield next week, though he was afraid it would be futile, and would only increase Thorin's burden.

* * *

"So?", Balin inquired nosily, clutching Thorin's bag, hurrying after his cousin, wheezing as he tried to keep up. But the his friend just took his bag and pulled his hood up as they stepped outside, apparently not in the mood to talk. The streets of Erebor were dead quiet, and only occasionally a car would pass them on their way home - most workers would not be home before ten from the Smaug Chemical Industry plant, their homes dark and forlorn until then, many house vacant since the demise of mining in the area. Idaho was renowned from it's rich mineral deposit, and the town had boomed for years, silver and gold mining employing thousands - until some bad investments had ruined Thror & Company's mining business, causing unemployment and social problems.

The corrupt mines were eventually taken over by Wladimir Smaug, a Russian oligarch who planned to return Erebor to it's former glory, running for mayor, smugly referring to his former competitor as a greedy coward, who had been too foolish and too proud to fusion in time to save his mines and employees - a story which most townspeople took for the whole truth, 84% voting for Smaug.

As always, the two boys would take the long route through the woods, as to not have to walk past their former homes in the suburbs; more than once they had found themselves ringing the door of Kingstreet 6 accidentially, lost in thought, quickly running away when realizing their mistake as a strange butler would opened the door.

Entering the trailer park at sunset, Thorin's eyes would always seek out the graffiti sprayed onto the back of the destination board, reading '_From riches to rags'_ in crimson paint, three feet high – Thorin wondered if it had been there before his family had moved in.

"Will you -cough- have dinner with us? And Dís could come too!", Balin asked cheerfully, his round face red from the effort to not stay behind, using his inhaler to lessen the pain in chest.

"Papa is making meatballs -cough- what do you say? Good? I cracked -cough- a copy of the new _Quest for the cursed gold_, you wanna play tonight?"

Balin grinned, seeing how his cousin seemed inclined to accept his invitation, the dark haired teenager almost smiling; but his heart sank as he spotted the truck of Thorin's father parked in front of their trailer, knowing his cousin would not come over. Hearing glasses break inside and somebody yelling, Thorin sighed, the small smile fading from his face, replaced by a deep frown; he would have loved to have a normal family dinner once again.

"Sorry Balin, I can't come over... Say hi to Dwalin and your Dad from me - maybe next time, okay?"

The younger boy tried to not look disappointed, standing between his and Thorin's trailer, small and pudgy, his bright hair standing up in impossible ways, giving him the look of a human Westie which had just been kicked. Balin surely had hoped to get his cousin to talk about the counseling during dinner, curiosity eating him alive.

"`Kay... Uh, I could come over later and bring you some leftovers?"

Hearing something heavy hit the trailer wall, Thorin sighed and shook his head, looking tired.

"Balin, you _know_ what he is like... Well, see you tomorrow."

Hearing a fierce quarrel going on inside, the short boy decided his cousin was probably right, and waved him good night he went home, not envying his friend for what awaited him, jumping aside as a plastic cup was hurled through the open door of the Oakenshield home.  
"Oooo_kay_. See you tomorrow Thorin! Take care and have a good night!"

Thorin almost laughed at the irony of his friend's statement as he entered the trailer; surely, there would not be anything about this night being any good, not if his father was home!

* * *

"Hi Grandpa... Had a nice day?"

Thror Oakenshield looked at his grandson confused, watching him walk about the trailer, laughing hoarsely. The beer in his hand was long gone, but still he tried to take a sip from the empty can now and then, scratching his face and wondering what to do, his blue eyes dull and stupid, not taking in the constant television broadcast in front of him. The once so proud owner of Thror & Company had long given up his life, drinking himself to death – but unfortunately, killing his body took a lot longer than had to kill his mind.

Thorin put his bag on the top bunk bed by habit, even though he could sleep on the lower bed now since Frerin had run away. To Thrain, his second son was dead, and he expected his other two children to think the same of their brother, and not speak a word of him - a rule Dís loved to disobey, constantly referring to Frerin. The 16-year old could not see why she should not be allowed to see her brother, even if he was working for Smaugh & Company now, or why she could not accept the money he was sending them; for she did not mind where the money came from, if it meant not being mocked in school for wearing clothes looking worse than welfare, and go out on friday nights.

Thorin sneaked over to the sink, studying his face in the mirror; maybe, if he used a bit of Dís make-up, he could hide some of the bruises? She surely would not mind, knowing how angry their father would be finding his eldest child beating Wladimir Smaug's eldest up again; for the Smaug's could crush them at any time with a law suit, taking away the few things they still owned, sending them to live on the streets.

In the kitchen, Dís and Thrain were arguing, screaming at each other, not caring if all the neighbors were listening; Thorin was ashamed for his family for behaving worse than Drunk Larry and his fifteen children from two wives, yelling and throwing stuff around.

"YOU ARE NOT MY DAUGHTER ANYMORE!"

"AND YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER ANYMORE!"

"WATCH YOUR TONGUE YOUNG LADY OR I-"

"OR WHAT!"

Dís cried, throwing a plastic plate at her father, who ducked just in time, the plate landing on the broken sofa behind him. Thrain shook his fists at her in frustration, barely refraining from throwing things at his unruly child in return; one of the few things the once CO, now lumberjack still took pride in was never having hit a woman, no matter how much he thought her deserving a good slapping.

"YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! I WILL MARRY HIM!"

"NOW LISTEN YOU BRAT! AS LONG AS YOU'RE LIVING IN MY HOUSE-"  
"_HOUSE_?! HA! WHAT HOUSE!"

Thorin flinched, hearing his sister hit their father straight where it hurt; Dís knew perfectly well what she was doing, and would use any weapon at her hands to get what she wanted, just as stubborn as the man she was arguing with. Maybe that was why the blond girl always had been her father's favorite – she was nowadays the only one who could still keep up with his foul mood, now that their mother had died.

Thrain punched the wall, making other dent in the Trailer, foaming with rage as he yelled at his daughter, "_MY HOUSE_! THE VERY HOUSE YOU LITTLE SNATCH WILL BE RAISING YOUR GODDAMN BASTARD IN!"

Dís paled, crossing her arms protectively over her huge belly; for a moment, Thorin thought she was going to start throwing the kitchen knives at their father, overprotective to the brink of murder of her unborn baby – but surprisingly, Dís started to cry, sinking to the floor, a picture of misery as she sat on the rug, her mascara running down her cheeks, leaving black stains on her pink shirt.

"_Bughuhuhuhu! Don't you call my baaaaaby baaaastaaaaard! BUHUHUUUU!_"

Thrain looked embarrassed at his daughter crying, pulling his brown beard nervously; seeing his baby girl cry always made his resolutions falter, just like now, as he bent down to lift his daughter up, brushing away her tears with his rough hands.

"Now, look Díssy, don't cry – come here, daddy did not mean to make you cry, there there... Of course your son is not gonna be a bastard – and he's gonna be just a pretty as his mommy... Don't cry little one, don't cry- say, who is daddy's pretty little girl?"

Dís sniffled and clung to her father, all animosity forgotten as she let him soothe her, still nothing but a sad teenage girl when it came down to. Thorin wished his father would be as kind when it came to his problems, knowing it would not be long before Thrain would find out where his son got his new bruises from, and would probably be adding some more before the night was over.


End file.
